


The Ones We Love

by Trin303



Series: Kinktober 2020 [29]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: Kinktober 2020Prompt: Ghost SexHelen is gone but John keeps seeing her. Is he losing his mind?
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Kinktober 2020 [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962415
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The Ones We Love

The past few days have been a fucking frenzy.

Losing Helen broke him in ways he never thought were possible. His days and nights were empty, broken up only by necessary duties. Talking with the funeral director, with the priest Helen’s mother insisted upon having lead the funeral. Arranging for flowers and catering because apparently you had to serve food after a funeral.

And then, like an angel from beyond, she sent him the puppy. A token of her love, a chance to survive and mourn with a glimmer of hope.

Even from beyond the grave, Helen was taking care of him.

And then Iosef fucking Tarasov.

Five years retired coupled with crippling grief left John unaware. Off his guard, possibly for the first time in his life.

Daisy was killed.

But John woke up to a hand on his shoulder and he could have sworn he heard a voice whispering, get up, John.

Of course, he woke up alone. 

In his empty house.

Without his wife. Without his dog.

The next day, he had gone to the Continental. And on that long drive into the city, John nearly crashed the car when he heard Helen’s voice, clear as day, saying:

“You know they won’t let you back out.”

He had looked over and, sure enough, he could see her in his passenger seat. Looking as alive and healthy as she had before she had gone into the hospital.

She turned and looked at him, “The moment you set foot on Continental grounds, they will pull you in.”

“You’re not real.”

She only smiled, “What is real, John?”

He spared a glance to the road and when he looked back, she was gone.

He wrote it down as a mixture of sleep deprivation, a probable concussion, and unchecked grief. 

Until John had burned Tarasov’s money and records.

He climbs to the roof of a nearby building and waits. 

“Is this making you feel better?” He heard Helen ask and he closed his eyes, wanting to scream, to cry, to fall to his knees and beg for her to take his life, to take him to wherever she is, whether it’s heaven, hell, or nothingness. Anything would be better than life without her.

“I wouldn’t say better.” He says softly, doubtfully. Like he isn’t sure if he’s talking to Helen or to himself.

“What would you say?” She leans out, looking down the street.

“For a brief moment, I felt something other than emptiness and anger.”

“Schadenfreude. Joy at Tarasov’s misfortune?”

“He deserves it and more.”

“Probably. I’m not one to judge.”

“He killed our puppy, Hels.” John says incredulously.

“Iosef killed our puppy.” She corrects, “And I’ll admit I’m judging him harshly. But killing him isn’t going to make the pain go away.”

“I know.” John says softly. “Nothing will, will it?”

He turns to look but she is gone. And Tarasov’s car is coming down the street.

…

It had been a long damn time since John was hit by a car. He forgot how much it hurt.

In the old days, it might not have phased him much. But he was older. Out of practice. Retired. 

It hurt like a bitch and gave Tarasov an opportunity to have the upper hand.

When they rip the bag off his head, John blinks in the light. Tarasov and a couple of his goons are there but so is Helen. She stands off to the side, arms folded across her chest and looking at him incredulously.

“I’ll say this, John,” Tarasov growled at him, “They sure as fuck broke the mold with you.”

Helen snorts and John looks around. No one else seems to notice her, which confirms his theory that he really is losing his mind. Funnily enough, he can’t seem to care.

All he wants to do is walk over to her, mirage or not, and take her in his arms. Kiss her senseless. Beg her to never leave his side.

Viggo is still rambling and Helen tilts her head, indicating that he should be listening.

He comes back in time to hear Viggo mutter, “I can say you’re still very much the John Wick of old.”

“Am I?” He mutters.

“People don’t change. You know that. Times, they do.” Viggo leans forward, “Do you know what was in that vault? Artwork, cash, not without its worth… But the leverage I had on this city-- audio recordings, evidence, blackmail! It was fuckin’ priceless! Priceless!” He shouts again.

John can’t help but smile as Helen rolls her eyes. “Yeah. I kind of enjoyed that.”

Helen has her head resting against her hand, shaking it in disbelief, “Has it ever occured to you that, maybe, people wouldn’t try to kill you as much if you werent such a fucking asshole?” She asks and John finds himself laughing.

“Are you really fucking laughing?” Viggo asks incredulously but John just chuckles and looks back at his captor. 

“Then you got married, huh? Settled down. How did you manage that, anyway?”

John looks past Viggo at his wife. 

Damned if he knew.

“Luck, I guess.”

She rolls her eyes again. 

Viggo started ranting again, talking about Iosef and ranting to John. He is only idly paying attention, instead so intently focused on the vision of his wife. 

“In the end,” Viggo says stepping in front of John’s line of sight, “A lot of us are rewarded for our misdeeds… which is why God took your wife and unleashed you upon me.”

John’s head snaps up at that verdict.

“Don’t listen to him.” Helen says, “My death had nothing to do with you.”

But the anger is already building and God, it’s so much easier to be angry than to be broken and he clings to it. 

“Step aside. Give me your son.”

“It was just a fucking car! Just a fucking dog!”

“Just a dog.” John repeats, again looking to Helen. She seems further away but nothing in the room has moved. “Viggo, when Helen died, I lost everything.”

Her face is stoic as he talks, watching him with love. Gentleness. Everything that this world wasn’t.

“Until that dog arrived on my doorstep-- a final gift from my wife. In that moment, I received some semblance of hope… an opportunity to grieve unalone. And your son…” He looks to Viggo, “took that from me. Stole that from me. Killed that from me! And people keep asking me if I’m back, and i haven’t really had an answer, but now, yeah. I’m thinking I’m back!” 

“Oh John.” She whispers and the vision of her starts to fade. 

John swallows at the loss, and takes the new anger at watching her fade from him again and aims it at Viggo, screaming, “So you can either hand over your son, or you can die screaming alongside him!”

…

And then it’s over. Sort of. Iosef is dead and John walks out alive. No worse for wear. And there she is. John nearly falls to his knees at the sight of her. 

“It’s over.” He whispers and Helen just looks at him sadly.

“For now.” She replies softly.

She brushes her hand against his cheek.

And then she is gone.

…

John stumbled into the house, letting his new dog loose to explore.

His shoulder no longer bled and the staples holding him together were holding well but he’d be lying if he said he was feeling good.

How long had it been since he had a night like this?

Had he ever had a night like this?

He had always been the best, always at the top of his game. He had been injured, of course, but after taking off five years, he had his ass handed to him.

But still, he was alive.

He was alive and countless others were dead.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Helen was buried six feet under.

Daisy was buried in the yard.

He had the new dog now and that was good. He could nearly feel Helen when he released it from its cage and took it home.

John groans, taking hold of the railing as he tries to make his way up the stairs. He makes his way into his study and to the table in the corner that held several bottles of liquor. He opens the bourbon and swallows it down.

He closes his eyes, letting the burn fill him.

And feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Three days without me and you’re falling apart at the seams.” The voice is soft and warm and filled with honey. It’s nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

“We both knew I’d never make it far without you.” He takes another long sip.

“You’re still here.” Helen reminds him, her hand dragging around as she stands in front of him. She looks so real that it throws him. His Helen, standing in front of him.

It’s not real, though. He watched her die. He watched them close the coffin lid and watched as the lowered her into the ground and covered her with flowers and dirt.

“You’re not.”

She offers a small smile, “No. I’m not.”

“It’s not right. You should be here and I…”

“Are exactly where you’re meant to be.” She looks up at him, a small smile on his face and John feels the urge to break down to his knees and sob because how is he supposed to be anywhere without her? How is he supposed to do anything without her? But her hand catches his chin, moving his face from side to side, assessing the damage. “You look terrible.”

“You look perfect.”

She offers a smile, “My sweet man.”

He doesn’t feel like her sweet man. He feels feral and angry and broken all at once. Before Helen, he was just empty. But now, he was ruined.

"I need you." It comes out desperately but he doesn't care. Helen doesn't judge. She never has.

Her hands slide up his face, cupping his head between two hands. "I'm still here. I'm still with you, every step of the way."

“I miss you so much.” He chokes on the words and he’s tempted to look away from her and try to get himself back under his iron control. But he can’t bring himself to look at anything else. He can see her, feel her. 

And he isn’t certain for how long it will last and he can’t miss a moment of it.

Even as tears cloud his vision.

“I know, my heart. And I’m so sorry for everything.”

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes.

Her hands slide down his cheeks and over his shoulders, tracing down his arms. He grabs her hand in his and brings it to his mouth, placing a kiss to each and every finger. She lets him and when he is done, she takes his hand and leads him upstairs. She sits him on the bed and disappears into the bathroom.

Her things are still on the sink, John thinks. It’s almost like she’s still there, alive, in their home.

She comes out with a wet washcloth and orders him, “Take off your clothes.”

He does his best to shrug out of his suit, trying to ignore the injuries that pepper his body. He kicks off his pants, surprised at the bruises on his thighs. 

“Do you remember the early days?” She asks as she helps him out of his shirt. “Back in the very beginning, when you would come home bruised and bloody. Used to scare the shit out of me. The idea that one wrong move could get you killed.”

“Yeah.”

“You made a lot of wrong moves this week.” She tells him. “I suppose I worried for nothing. It turns out, you’re just unkillable.”

He laughs and tries to ignore the sharp pain in his ribs.

“I can honestly say, I don’t think I’ve ever had my ass handed to me like I have these past few days.”

She glances up from where she is running the washcloth over his chest. “I need you to take it easy this week. This month. For however long you can. Let yourself heal.”

“I will.”

“I’m serious, John. Marcus was right. You’re back in now. And that’s going to open some doors that you won’t just be able to close again.”

“I’ll be careful.” He promises and she nods, going back to cleaning up the blood.

“You did an awful job with these staples.”

He smirks, “thank you.”

She shoots him a glare, “This is why people line up to try to kill you, John.”

And again, he laughs and immediately regrets it.

“I don’t even feel bad.” She tells him as he winces in pain. 

Fair enough, he thinks.

She finishes cleaning his torso and tosses the bloody rag aside.

“Anything broken besides your ribs?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“I’m not omnipotent because I’m dead.”

“And here I thought you knew everything.”

He regrets it because the small smile slides from her face. “Not everything. Not enough to keep you safe.”

John places his hand under her chin and tugs her up, off her knees. “Come here.” He whispers and, to his delight, she listens. He pulls her onto his lap and she straddles him, careful to avoid his ribs. 

“I love you.” He tells her.

And that makes the corner of her lips tip up in a grin. “I love you, too.”

He’s not sure how long he has her. How long this will be real for, but he leans in and takes advantage of the present. He kisses her with all the pent up anger and grief and sadness that have weighed him down in the days since he was forced to follow her wishes and say goodbye.

And she kisses him back and for a moment, he can forget that Helen is buried six feet down. He can take comfort in the fact that she is right here. Real or not.

He honestly can’t bring himself to care as she cups his face in her hands.

Maybe this is a mirage. Or maybe he did suffer a concussion. Maybe he’s losing his mind or maybe Helen is here, with him. Loving him. 

If anyone could outstubborn whoever ruled the afterlife, it would be Helen.

And he loves her for it.

John moves back on the bed, dragging her with him, and he lays down. Helen stops him from pulling her down, bracing an arm on either side of him.

“Your ribs.”

“Break them all.” John says and tugs her off balance.

She slips and falls on him but she is simultaneously against him and weightless. He doesn’t give the thought time to formulate. He doesn’t care about the schematics. He only cares that he gets to touch her again.

For however long she’s with him.

The illusion of clothes on her ghostly body vanish and he’s left with something far better and more familiar. 

He touches her in awe, with reverence.

And Helen smirks at him, “What are you doing John?”

“Looking at you.”

She bends her head down and whispers, “Come here.” She kisses him softly and it’s enough to destroy him. Her touch, her loving hands. She’s a goddess and he loves her. So much. 

He wraps a hand in her hair, kissing her deeper. Memorizing the taste of her all over again. Love swells through him as she breaks the kiss, only to press her lips to the cuts on his face, healing him. Cleansing him of his sins all over again.

He rolls, taking her with him, as he takes his place atop of her body.

He takes his length in hand and slides into her and feels himself coming home.

“I love you.” She tells him and she reaches up to touch his face, almost like she’s memorizing him. 

John takes his time, doing the same. He revels in the feel of his body on hers, aware that this won’t last forever. That eventually, she’ll disappear like she always does. 

But he tries not to think about that.

Instead, he concentrates the sparkle in her eyes and the softness of her lips. The sweetness of her tongue. The gentleness in her touch. He’s never taken it for granted but he’s never made love to her with such intent.

He moves slowly in and out, hoping that if he takes his time, it will last forever.

It’s nearly impossible, however. She feels too good and after the week he’s had, he needs this. He can’t stop himself from the pleasure that’s building inside him.

Helen’s head bends up and she presses her forehead to his.

“You need to know,” she whispers, “That I’m always with you.”

“Don’t go.”

“Never.” Helen promises, “even when you can’t see me… I promise, John. I’ll be there.”

John breaks, coming as he does, no longer able to resist the euphoria that being inside her again has brought him. He hates himself for it and he does his best to watch her. The little ways that her face contorts in pleasure and the complete and utter devotion that remains in her eyes, despite everything.

He loves her. 

He loves her so much that it breaks him all over again.

Her soft, honeyed voice murmurs, “I love you.”

And John finds himself falling half a foot to the bed, landing face first on the mattress.

Helen is gone.

Again.

And he is alone.

John screams into the mattress, an agonizing shout that has too long been subdued by his desire for revenge.

But through the heartbreak, he feels fingertips lovingly running down his back.

He turns but cannot see her.

Still, he hears her words, consuming him again, as much as he had the first time he heard them, all those years ago.

“I love you.”

Because the ones we love never really leave us.


End file.
